Flying Fingers, Inc
by Universal Queen
Summary: Ever wondered who was responsible for sending out text messages for the Streets' dance competition? It's not an easy job, but someone's got to do it. One shot; nothing serious. WARNING: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR STEP UP 2!


**Flying Fingers, Inc.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from any of the "Step Up" movies, nor do I particularly want to. The only characters I've created for the purpose of this one-shot are the members of Flying Fingers, Incorporated--Smokey, Lu, Victor and Randall--and let's face it, they are hardly worth suing over. I also do not own Big Gulp--which is trademarked by 7-11. I make absolutely NO MONEY writing this; it is purely art for art's sake. Thank you, and enjoy.

* * *

Smokey was less than pleased that her current employer was calling her at 4 o'clock in the morning. She knew it was her employer because the caller ID was able to tell her so in a creepy gynoid voice: "Call from DJ Sand." He never, ever called her land line unless he was pissed off about something. That something could be dissatisfaction with her database work... unless it was about a snafu on the part of one or all of her three peers, Lu, Victor and Randall. Her co-workers lived without land lines, were cunning enough to turn their cellular phones off after 10 PM, and were undoubtedly fast asleep by now. So, for whatever reason, Sand had apparently decided to pick on Smokey that night.

"Damn it," she groaned, reaching for the phone on her nightstand.

She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear and barely got to mumble "Hello?" before he cut her off: "Woman, I thought I fuckin' told you to get Andie West's name _off_ the master list!"

Smokey recoiled at his voice, but then yawned, rubbed her eyes and brought the receiver back to two inches from her ear. "What?"

"Andie West! Do I gotta spell it out for you?"

"I heard you, Mr. Sand," she answered. "You don't have to yell at me."

"Did you get her name off the master list like I asked you to?"

"Yes."

"Then would you mind tellin' me why the fuck she showed up to the Streets tonight?"

"I don't know," she answered. "No offense, Mr. Sand, but your parties are not that hard to find. She probably wandered around the city until she heard the music and saw the light show, or she followed some ravers--"

"--SHE CAME WITH A FUCKIN' CREW, SMOKEY!"

This problem he was concerned about was apparently not some accident. "Hang on," she replied, sighing and rolling over again, "let me get my computer."

As she reached for her laptop on the opposite side of the nightstand, grabbed it and opened it, Sand fumed over the phone, "Man, they told me you and the boys were techie timebombs! Real fuckin' experienced, right? They said Flyin' Fingers would help sort shit out for me, but lately it's been hassle after fuckin' hassle!"

"I'm doing my best, Mr. Sand," Smokey replied, holding the phone with her head and shoulder while typing and clicking rapidly on her laptop. "We all are. But please try to understand, sir. We're primarily list-maintainers and bookkeepers, not superheroes."

"Goddamn it, you don't get it, do you? Tuck is gonna kick my ass over this shit! He's pissed at Andie and don't want her showin' up to the Streets no more! And I told him I'd handle it, which means _y'all_ ought to know how to handle it! You the one in charge of the numbers, Smokey, not me, right?"

"Correct, sir."

"Damn right, I'm correct," he huffed. "Anybody fucks with 410, Tuck gets pissed, you hear? You know how hard it is to please that muthafucka when he don't get what he wants?"

"Absolutely," Smokey said, not knowing or caring which Tuck he was referring to.

"Tuck beats the shit out of people who piss him off and then he graffittis their shit!" Sand complained. "Do you _want_ me to get beaten shitless and have my shit covered in fuckin' spray paint?"

"Maybe you ought to call the police."

"You fuckin' serious?" Sand snapped. "I do not call the police. Never have, never will. _You_ and the rest of the Flyin' Fingers do that shit, remember? It's what I pay you for!"

"Among other things," Smokey muttered before clearing her throat and addressing him. "Okay, I think I figured out what happened."

Sand took a deep breath. "Go."

"Two weeks ago, you asked me to delete an Andie West off of the texting master list. She was in the 410 crew, is that correct?"

"Correct."

"Yeah, I deleted that one."

"So how come--?"

"--Last week," Smokey continued, "a new crew--the MSA crew--pulled a prank on the 410 crew, got a web-following, and... Victor did the rounds and collected the necessary information saying that the designated text recipient for the MSA crew... is Andie West."

"What?"

"She's technically on the list again."

"So fuckin' get her _off_ again!"

"Mr. Sand, I can't just delete people off of the list unless they're either not designated or not in a crew."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because I'm not permitted to delete any designated names or numbers until I get paperwork indicating either that the crew's text recipient has changed or that the crew has officially disbanded. And, as yet, I have not received that paperwork."

"I ain't talkin' 'bout the crew," Sand said. "I don't give a fuck if they show up or not. Honestly, between you and me, I'm gettin' sick of havin' my hairdresser and masseuse bringin' their sisters and brothers and cousins and their boyfriends and girlfriends, and it's not really a party no more, just a fuckin' impromptu family reunion. So fuck the crew, I don't care. Just get Andie off the list again so I can keep Tuck off my ass until this shit blows over."

"I told you already," Smokey replied, "I can't do that."

"Woman, are you _tryin_' to aggravate me?"

"No, sir. I'm just saying that I can't do it because Andie's still in the MSA crew."

"And?"

"If she's still in the MSA crew, then I can't delete her."

"Why the hell not?"

Smokey hated having to repeat herself more than twice, but bit her lip and figured that she hadn't been clear enough for Sand to understand the predicament. "She's the designated text recipient. The Flying Fingers, Incorporated, mass-text messaging management program will not let me keep track of the crews without a designated text recipient for each one. I can't delete Andie West unless either MSA gets a new designated text recipient or the whole crew disbands."

Something crashed and broke open on the other end. "Goddamn it!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sand. Maybe MSA will pick somebody else to be the designated text recipient, and she can be deleted, like, next week or something."

Sand groaned pitifully. "I ain't got 'til next week..." There was a pause, which was eventually broken by what sounded like clicking and somebody slurping an empty Big Gulp, followed by a muffled choke. "Fuck it," Sand whispered hoarsely, suddenly coughing. "Seriously, fuck it. Tuck's comin' to my place for a follow-up this weekend and my ass is gettin' a beatdown. Hope y'all are happy."

"We're not, Mr. Sand. Again, perhaps you should call the police."

"Fuck no," Sand replied. "Weren't you listenin' the first time? I ain't havin' those muthafuckas come 'round my house."

"Why not?"

"It sets a bad example."

Smokey realized that her employer had stopped making sense. "You'd rather get your ass beaten than set a bad example?"

"Damn right. I pay y'all to help keep them away, too, don't I?"

She checked the files on her laptop. "Yes, sir, I see that you did sign up for the Super Secrecy Service Pack..."

"One of your boys is supposed to handle that shit." This was followed by another Big-Gulp-slurping sound.

"Yes, sir. That is Randall's area of expertise."

Sand exhaled on the other end. "Right, Randall. Don't remember that dude."

"Skinny white guy," Smokey said, checking her e-mail. "He handles the cops so they stay away from your parties. Victor collects information about local crews face-to-face, and Lu does the web-searches and e-mailing."

"Right," replied Sand, not sounding like he cared one bit who did what.

"And, for what it's worth," she added, "judging from the documentation I got from Lu, it appears that the MSA crew pulled their prank on someone named Tuck."

"Tuck from 410?" Sand inquired.

Smokey scanned the text-message list for the 410 crew and matched up the information with her e-mail message. "Looks like it, sir."

"What kind of prank?" Yet another long Big-Gulp-slurp issued from the other end of the phone.

"Mr. Sand, shouldn't you put more soda in there?"

"No, no," Sand answered hoarsely. "I'm done. Go on."

"Well, the MSA crew apparently did some sort of Candid Camera thing. They followed Tuck around Baltimore without his knowing about it, filmed themselves doing silly things behind his back, and then they snuck into his... house, I think, and defaced the place while he was away."

Sand sputtered and coughed on the other end, desperately trying to clear his throat and catch his breath. "You fuckin' serious?" he finally asked.

"Lu says the video is still up on the internet, and Victor got confirmation that they made it, themselves. Want me to forward the link to you?"

"Yeah, yeah, you do that."

"Okay," she said, clicking the 'forward' button and composing a new message. "Are you at your computer, sir?"

"Not now," he answered, "but I'll read it when I get back to my place."

"Okay," she responded, clicking 'send.' "It's waiting for you to watch. If you have any problems, let Lu know any time tomorrow. He's probably got the video archived with the others by now."

"Well, good goddamn," he said, laughing. "Can't wait to see the look on his face... Holy shit. Just knowing they did that... Damn. Okay. Anyway, seein' as I'm about to be killed or some shit this weekend, and I don't give a fuck no more... what're y'all doin'?"

"Right now, Mr. Sand?"

"Yeah."

Smokey pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to massage away a headache and to appreciate the fact that her employer was much calmer now. "Well, to be honest, I was sleeping soundly before you called me."

"What're you wearing?"

Another twinge of pain pulsed behind her eyes. "With all due respect, sir, I think that breaches the client-contractor relationship."

"Right, right. Too soon. What 'bout Thursday night?"

"What do you need, sir?"

"I could use some more people at the Streets."

"What time?"

"Somethin' like eleven to... who the fuck knows."

"Okay," she said, opening up her ditigal notepad, "'Thurs nite, 11 to WTFK - the Streets.' What else would you like the text message to say?"

"No, no, I mean I'm invitin' you and the other Flyin' Fingers. You down?"

"Beg pardon?"

"I ain't never seen you or the boys," Sand said. "Ever. In person. It's just e-mail and phone calls with you. So why don't y'all come down to the Streets and party, too?" He added, with a touch of flirtatiousness, "We got Cristal..."

Smokey shuddered. She did not like alcohol, parties, loud music, or watching young people make idiots of themselves in public. "Gee, that sounds like fun, Mr. Sand," she replied, trying to sound genuinely interested, "but sadly I have other text message databases to maintain. After all, we're coming up on an election year."

"Yeah, I hear that. So ya'll ain't comin'?"

"I can't speak for Lu, Victor or Randall, but you can call them in another four hours and ask them. I just know I have other obligations this week. I appreciate the offer, though."

"Yeah, I bet you do," he muttered, despondently.

"Do you need help with anything else, sir?"

"No, no, I'm good. I'm good."

"If you need any more assistance, Mr. Sand, you can call Randall first thing tomorrow, and he can help you with that other issue we talked about."

"Right, right."

"Do you need his number, sir?"

"No, no, I got it."

"All right," Smokey responded. "Thank you for using Flying Fingers, Incorporated for your unique mass-text-messaging needs, and I hope you have a good evening."

"Thanks," he said. "You, too."

As soon as she could, Smokey hung up the phone and unplugged it. She didn't care what time it was anymore--she just wanted to go to sleep. She shutdown her laptop, closed it, put it back on the nightstand and curled back up under the covers. "Jesus, he's _so_ getting billed for this bullshit," she mumbled. "Here's hoping the senator's not going to be this goddamn paranoid..."

* * *

FIN.


End file.
